


Sankofa

by Janekfan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Ableism, Angry Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Anxiety, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blindness, Curse Breaking, Curses, Deaf, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fear, Fever, Gen, Geralt Rescues him, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: To look back to the past so that we may understand how we became what we are and move forward to a better futurePrompt: ...It's Jaskier who's cursed instead...I could see Geralt having to step outside his comfort zone, learning to help and support Jask while they try to break the curse.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 77
Kudos: 490





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by this prompt because in my youth, when families go to water parks and things, my mother insisted on holding my glasses so I wouldn't lose them, not realizing I cannot see hardly ANYTHING without them, just colors. She left me like half a dozen times in a throng of people and it was scary. And even though I kept telling her I couldn't SEE HER, she wouldn't listen. I felt scared and stupid because I couldn't keep track of my family. 
> 
> So enjoy :D
> 
> Thank you for the prompt!

“Geralt.” 

“Hm.” 

“I. What do you want me to say?” Jaskier’s grip on his lute tightened and he had to forcibly relax himself so as not to snap it in twain. “That you should have gotten hit with it instead? That _you_ should be the one waiting for the effects of a curse to take hold so that I? The mighty _bard_ can be the one to protect us both?” 

“Hm.” 

“Need I remind you that had you not pissed her off, we wouldn’t even be here?” 

“Hm.” 

“Fine. Leave me at the next village and I’ll just succumb to whatever this ends up being while you continue witchering or whatever.” 

“Hm.” Roach picked up her pace and he could hear Jaskier curse Geralt’s stubbornness as he loped after them. 

Geralt was angry. Angrier than usual with the musician and definitely not impressed with his self sacrifice because now, if anything, he would be an even bigger liability. It was bad enough he fumbled along behind him, constantly jabbering, writing the most ridiculous songs. But now, Geralt had to wait and see what would become of him now that he’d been hit with some unnamed affliction. Geralt refused to admit that Jaskier was right. That it was better that the stronger of them was curse free and able to continue on unimpaired.

But he was now an even larger inconvenience and Geralt hadn’t thought that was possible. 

And yet. 

As brave a face as he was putting on, he could smell the sour scent of anxiousness as Jaskier filled up the silence with more talk about inane things, stray lyrics, random observations, all because he was nervous. 

Nothing happened yet. Maybe nothing would happen at all. 

“Geralt.” Even and steady, Jaskier’s voice hovered somewhere to the left of him. There was something strange about the quality of it and it immediately set Geralt on edge. 

“What?” He couldn’t help the exasperation, it had been a long few days, and he felt Jaskier tense beside him on his bed roll. 

“There.” He paused and Geralt knew if he turned to look at him he’d be worrying his lip between his teeth. 

“ _What?_ ” They were late as it is, the sun three fingers above the horizon already. 

“There are no stars.” His whispering was shaky and trembling. Fear. It was flooding Geralt’s sensitive nose. What was this lunatic on about? Of course there weren’t any stars. 

“It’s late morning. Of course there aren’t.” He rolled his eyes and began packing up camp. They’d eat on the move to make up for lost time. He nudged Jaskier with the toe of his boot. “Get up. You’re wasting daylight.” 

“Daylight.” His hand was hovering over his face and he kicked him a little harder. 

“Yes. Daylight. Move or stay here, but I’m leaving.” Instead of following his directions, Jaskier swallowed a few times, blinking hard and staring at his palm in between. “Jaskier.” Growling, grabbing the collar of his chemise and slinging him to his feet himself, confused when his arms shot out for balance and he nearly fell. “What are you--are you drunk?” No. He’d smell it. But it was all becoming a little too clear and Geralt didn’t want to be the one to say it aloud. 

“No.” A weak exhale, a disbelieving laugh. “I’m. I’m blind.” 

Blind. 

The curse. 

“Are you sure?” Geralt was a hair's breadth away from his face, examining his eyes, blank and vacant and staring off into the distance despite their proximity. There was nothing wrong that he could tell. Still the same cornflower blue he was so familiar with. 

“I think I’d know.” He scoffed. 

“Then we’d better get moving.” Geralt couldn’t help it, the thread of anger twisting around his words just _happened_. All Jaskier seemed to do was slow him down and get in the way. “Find a way to break this thing.” It took the bard three times longer to pack his belongings and Geralt became more impatient every time he dropped something or stubbed his toe or lost his balance. He knew it wasn’t fair. But this was all the bard’s fault in the first place and he’d have to deal with the consequences. 

Jaskier played his lute even more and was even slower, not yet sure on his feet without the advantage of sight. Geralt saw that he kept his ear canted towards Roach’s hooves crunching on the stones, using her as a guide and he wondered if maybe Jaskier should be riding her instead. The music he was picking out on his strings was simpler and felt more like practice than anything new and he realized that he was comforting himself with easy exercises and wondered how long he’d insist on doing it. 

All day, it turned out, and Geralt was just about on his last nerve, turning his irritability into action by setting up camp and batting Jaskier out of his way, finally just sitting him in the dirt. He stoked up the fire, tossed down Jaskier’s bedroll and stalked off to find dinner and clear his head before he started yelling. 

When he returned with a brace of rabbits, Jaskier was gone and Geralt swallowed down the spike of panic in his throat, dropping his catch and looking for signs of a struggle and instead finding odd marks that looked like Jaskier had crawled across the ground. And he found him, cowering amid Roach’s legs, a dangerous spot for probably anyone else, but she was as calm as ever, letting him stroke the length of her forelimb. There were drying tear tracks on his face. 

“G’Geralt?” His voice was small and wavering, barely above his shaking breath. 

“Who else would it be?” 

“I didn’t know where you’d gone.” He didn’t leave the horse. “I, I called out. But. And then. There’s a lot of noises in the woods at night.” This laugh was self deprecating, as though he knew how ridiculous he was being, like a child hiding from shadows. 

But his whole world was in shadow.

“You’ve camped before. It’s foolish to be afraid.” 

“Y’yeah. Of course it is.” He extricated himself from his position beneath Roach, petting her neck, and Geralt let it be. “Thank you for your protection, good lady.” She lipped the collar of his doublet and he rested his cheek on her velvet nose for just a moment before stumbling back to his bedroll. 

“Here.” Jaskier looked confused. “The rabbit. Dinner?” 

“Oh, uh.” He reached out, drawing his hand quickly back when he burned the tips of his fingers and slipping them into his mouth for a second. “Ha, it’s hot.” Geralt yanked his wrist and pressed the stick he’d roasted the meat on against his palm and watched Jaskier’s fingers wrap around it reflexively. 

“Just eat. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.” 

They didn’t. Not the next day, nor the day after that, but Jaskier was trying to adjust more and more each day despite how he seemed to be withdrawing. It was easy to forget he was blind and Geralt was easily frustrated by his sense of direction, or rather the awful lack of it. More than once, he’d misjudged the path and toppled into the bushes. Twice, Geralt had come back from a hunt to find him trapped in the corner of their rented room. He’d gotten turned around and hadn’t been able to figure out how he was boxed in by the bed, the small table, a chair. Jaskier laughed it off. 

He’d been upset each time. 

At the market the next day, Geralt told him off handedly that he was heading to the blacksmith, and to catch up when he was ready, because usually he wanted to dither about at the stalls looking at some trinket or another. When he’d finally realized, tapping his foot and _waiting_ for a blind man who didn’t know his way around this village to somehow _find_ him, he followed his scent, laced with terror, to an alley where he’d pressed himself up tight to the wall, protecting his back. They didn’t speak, Geralt just grabbed his wrist and dragged him back to the room. Told him to stay there if he couldn’t figure out how to find his way around. 

The hurt on his face cut like a blade. 

“Get _down_ and stay _down_.” Geralt shoved Jaskier’s face into the dirt, both of them narrowly avoiding decapitation when the beast attacked out of nowhere. Caught flat footed, Geralt found himself pinned to the ground, struggling under the weight of it and hooking his thumbs in the corners of its maw to keep the teeth from closing around his head. Fetid breath came closer and closer and he thought for a moment this might be it when the resounding crack of a tree limb colliding with the side of its skull stunned it enough for Geralt to kick it off him. He used the momentum to roll and draw his steel sword, cutting off its head with a wet and sickening squelch.

“Geralt?” Jaskier, covered in black ichor and mud, stood swaying in the road, clinging to a length of splintered wood, blind eyes wide with shock. And then, panting with horror, Jaskier fainted dead away. 

He’d lost him again. 

“Fuck.” Geralt didn’t know where or how long ago and began retracing his steps, scenting the air and picking up the faintest traces of the oils he’d used last night in the bath. It was tainted by the smell of fear, acrid and sharp, and he ran. 

Saw Jaskier pinned up against a wall by a larger man than he, a broad, ugly hand clasped over his mouth and a knee between his thighs. He was struggling to breathe, high pitched whimpering slipped from behind his attacker’s palm and he grabbed a fistful of hair to slam the back of Jaskier’s head into the wall behind him. 

The brute didn’t notice the knife slipped between his ribs until it was too late. He’d die in this place and Geralt wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. 

“Who--” He sobbed, choked. “Geralt?” Tears cascaded down his cheeks, slipped off his chin. 

“Who was that?” Why couldn’t he be kind to Jaskier when he needed it most? Why did he let his own fear of the situation manifest as blame?

“He’d. _Solicited_ me in the tavern and I told him no.” He shuddered. “I thought he might be following but.” He swallowed with a wet click. “You were walking so fast, I lost the sound of your steps.” Drawing a sharp intake of breath he swept a hand through his tousled hair, trying to calm himself down. Geralt could hear his heartbeat hammering madly away behind his breastbone. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaskier flinched at his volume, hugging himself around his middle and casting his face to the ground, and if Geralt was a stronger man he would tell his bard that this was not his fault. That he was scared of what _he_ almost let happen. 

“I. You were angry.” 

“What?” With the heel of his hand, Jaskier scrubbed at his face. His bruised face, the imprints from where he was held darkening around his mouth and neck. 

“You said I needed to figure this out and. I.” Had been snatched off the street by a predator and very nearly badly hurt. “I forgot my dagger back at the inn.” He took a deep breath, and then another. “I’m sorry, that was. That was stupid.” 

“Hm.” It wasn’t. He should have been safe with Geralt in broad daylight. This time he took his hand, laced their fingers together and squeezed. “Let’s go.” 

Exhausted from his earlier panic, Jaskier could barely stand when they reached the room, and Geralt helped him the last few steps to the bed, divesting him of doublet and chemise to expose even more bruising. He should have killed the guy slower. Much slower.

“Sorry. I’m sorry you have to do this.” Barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have. This curse.” 

“Hush.” Geralt wrung out a cloth in the wash basin, touched it to his face and caught him when he jerked away in fear and surprise. “It’s alright. Just me. I’m going to get you cleaned up, Jaskier.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” Muttering, he reached for the flannel. 

“I know. Just. Relax, alright?” He swept it up his arm, lingered at the space between his neck and shoulder. “I’ve got you. I’m. Going to do better, Jaskier.” 

“What do you mean?” This time, he allowed the touch and Geralt dabbed at a cut on his lip before rinsing and wringing again. 

“You’ll ride Roach. In towns, I won’t let you out of my sight.” Jaskier was relaxing, blinking sleepily. 

“You can’t babysit me all the time, Geralt.” Though he detected the hope that he wouldn’t have to keep doing this alone beneath his voice. 

“No. But I can take care of you until we find a way to break this. Like I should have been doing from the start.” Jaskier’s head was nodding as he fought to stay awake. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Geralt let Jaskier sleep in. The man was dead to the world, bruises stark on his pale skin, and no doubt exhausted from the day before and trying to manage as a newly blind being basically traveling alone. They had to get moving. Maybe Yennefer would understand how to break this curse or at least point them in a direction. But they had to find her first. 

“Jaskier.” There was no response, not even a twitch, and Geralt spoke his name louder, and louder still before shaking him awake and dodging his flying fist. “Jaskier!” Nothing but panic in his face and Geralt was tired of seeing that there. He settled his hands over his shoulders, cupped his neck on either side. “Jaskier, what is it? A bad dream?” That wasn’t uncommon after an experience like he’d had. 

“Geralt?” His breathing picked up, tears lined his dark lashes. “I.” The witcher snapped his fingers on either side of his head and watched his stricken face stay the same. “Geralt?” This time he drew Jaskier into an embrace, hugging him tightly and allowing him to do the same. 

Because he couldn’t hear.


	2. Chapter 2

Perhaps the worst part of what was happening was the guilt now settled in the pit of his stomach as he kept hold of Jaskier. Because he knew. _Knew_. That if their roles were reversed, Geralt would feel completely safe with Jaskier looking out for him. 

Jaskier would never have allowed him to stumble along after a horse. 

Or ridiculed him for being unable to adjust at a speed to suit him.

Or walked away from him without telling him where he was going. 

Or, or left him in the middle of a village surrounded by strangers. 

Maybe he should leave him here. Pay up the room with what he had left and find Yennefer and beg her to help them. 

“G’geralt?” All pretense of bravery was gone and his voice quivered like a leaf in autumn, that close to losing grip. Sight was bad enough. This was a thousand times worse. “Are you.” Jaskier’s fingers gripped the black linen bunched at Geralt’s waist. “Going to leave me behind?” 

“No.” But Jaskier couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t hear music, voices, birds, the wind rustling through branches, Roach’s soft nickering when he gave her more treats than she was supposed to have. 

Nothing.

So he pushed him back and took his hand. He’d promised him he would try. And placed it on his cheek, Jaskier flinching when he realized what was happening, brow creased in confusion. Geralt shook his head slowly, exaggerating the movement, and the _relief_ in his face, the burst of his exhale all at once. 

Geralt handed him his clothing, packing their supplies and listening to Jaskier hum as he got dressed. 

“We’ll have to find Yennefer, of course.” The tremor was almost imperceptible, but it was there. “I suppose. I suppose we need to find a better way to communicate.” Geralt let his steps fall heavy to warn Jaskier, and tapped his arm twice. “Once for no, twice for yes?” Tap, tap. “Wonderful! We can go back to our thrilling conversations.” When Jaskier tripped, Geralt caught him, rolling his eyes at his chuffed expression. “I’m sure you’re glad of it, too.” Resolutely, the witcher poked him firmly once in the forehead, but it only made him laugh and to Geralt it was like the most beautiful song. “You don’t mean that.” 

That evening Geralt handed Jaskier his bedroll and led him to a flat spot, knocking him twice on the back and letting him have at. This was fine. This. He could do this. He’d stalked away nearly half a furlong before he realized he’d forgotten to tell Jaskier, jogging back and at a loss as to how to explain to him. 

“Hunting?” Jaskier, at least, was intuitive and must have felt his booted feet striking the ground on his way back to him. Two pats on his shoulder. “Be back soon.” 

Geralt thought he would enjoy the quiet, but for all Jaskier joked earlier about going back to their one sided discussions he remained silent on the other side of the fire. He was holding a twig in his hands, methodically feeling it up, down, and all around, counting the imperfections, lingering on a bud near what would be the top. Just. Touching. Thinking. Hard about something. 

“There’s a song in here somewhere.” Barely above a whisper. “I could. I could pen it, of course.” His vacant eyes glimmered in the firelight but no tears fell. “I’d never truly know what it sounded like. Or if it brought people joy.” He swallowed before snapping the small stick in half and casting it into the fire. Scrubbing his arm across his face he smiled a fake smile slightly to the right of where Geralt sat. “Smells good.” 

Jaskier had more confidence now that he’d been assured of his help, which was the opposite of what Geralt thought would happen at the start of the curse’s symptoms. He’d been taught that the best way to learn was to be thrown into the ring. You either survived and came out the other side a stronger witcher. Or you didn’t. But Jaskier was human. And humans were different. 

Even if that nagging voice in the back of his head (which sounded too much like Jaskier) kept reminding him that he was something close to human. That he deserved to help and be helped in return. 

For now, Jaskier trundled along beside Roach, one hand on her flank, and talked Geralt’s ear straight off. 

“You’ll let me know if I’m speaking too loudly?” Jaskier was always loud, though he did seem to shout sometimes now, unable to regulate his volume. Of which he’d never seemed to care about before. “I can’t hear myself even in my own head. Which is interesting.” They ambled on, searching out healers and hedgewitches, none of whom could fix what needed fixing, until finally, they heard rumor of a powerful sorceress with lilac eyes. Regardless of where they went or what towns they passed through, Geralt kept a firm hold on Jaskier’s shoulder or he on his, and eventually the bard lost the sour edge of trepidation when they were among crowds. It was comforting, that he was trusted enough to keep him safe, that Jaskier was able to place himself completely in Geralt’s hands without fear now that he knew he was actively looking out for him. 

It had been a bad idea and Geralt knew it from the start, but Yennefer was in the next town and the quickest way to her was through this river. He’d brought Roach across first, to get a feel for the depth and strength and figured with his help, Jaskier would manage. They’d build a fire on the other side and dry off before continuing on their way. It would still shave off nearly a day’s travel. 

“This is a bad idea, Geralt.” Jaskier’s breath caught when the frigid water spilled over the tops of his boots and soaked his breeches. “I’m going to fall.” 

“You’re not.” Geralt tightened his hold, “I’ve got you.” Said aloud for his own benefit perhaps, because Jaskier certainly couldn’t hear it. He tapped his index finger against his pulse point. Hoped it was comforting. They were making good progress, more than halfway and through the deepest section, and he dared get his hopes up right before Jaskier was ripped away from him. He watched the water flood his mouth as his head disappeared below the surface, cutting off his shout of surprise. 

And the river swallowed his voice.

It had been a bad idea and Jaskier knew it from the start, but while Geralt was being much more agreeable now than he had in the beginning, he didn’t want to test the limits of this precarious situation. Which is how he found himself up to his waist in a cold river with Geralt holding both his wrists in a bruising grip. He had no way to know what was happening, other than the comforting double touch against his skin. That was supposed to be encouraging, right?

But the current was swift and strong, made so by the snowmelt coming off the mountains, and Jaskier would admit to anyone that his boots weren’t in the best of shape, and so with the tumble of a round stone beneath his carefully placed foot, he was sent beneath the water and yanked out of Geralt’s hands.

Jaskier didn’t know if having his sight would have made a difference because under the surface he was being tossed about like a child’s ragdoll in the rapids, doing his best to protect his head from colliding with boulders he couldn’t see. More than once he got a mouthful of icy water, some of which he breathed and it caused him to cough, and gasp, and chug what felt like half the river. He was battered, frozen. Lungs tight in his chest with cold and when he thought the flow might have been slowing, Jaskier finally broke the surface for good, laying on his back and sucking in any air he could. He thrashed, trying to get his feet pointed downstream and thanked the goddess there were no waterfalls in the area. He thought, anyway. He couldn’t feel his fingers and didn’t want to die here, gradually kicking in one direction (he hoped) and attempting to keep his arms perpendicular to the current. Tiring, he was about to give up the ghost, when the soles of his boots touched bottom and he sobbed in relief, hauling himself onto the bank and promptly heaving up a stomachful of water. He shivered. Felt around the immediate area with scraped up hands, struggling further away from the pounding of the river and hoping to find some dry ground that wasn’t a ditch or a deadfall. The broad trunk of a tree appeared in his way and, using it as a windbreak, Jaskier curled between its roots, sweeping leaves over his lap in an attempt to keep even a smidge of body heat in him instead of out. Pressing his face into the bark, Jaskier tried very hard not to think about what evil might be lingering around him.

Geralt would find him. He would. 

“Well, you swam to the right side at least.” The blue of Jaskier’s doublet peeking out from a pile of leaves clued him in and he was impressed with Jaskier’s fortitude and quick thinking. When he touched him, he came sluggishly awake, coughing as he shifted. 

“Geralt?” Two gentle taps before he cupped his pale, frozen cheek. “Knew...knew you’d fin’ me.” Geralt tucked Roach’s saddle blanket over him and his leaves, turning away to get a fire built up. Jaskier needed to be dry ages ago, and the cough that settled in his chest so quickly sounded far too wet. He was shivering violently, clinging to Geralt and the heat he was putting off when he transferred him from the tree to his bedroll. “Am I.” Teeth chattering, he began peeling off his damp things, gladly letting Geralt take over for him when his numb fingers fumbled with the fiddly buttons. “The right side of the river, ‘least?” The witcher paused long enough to pat him twice on his knee. “There’s that, I suppose.” Stripped down to his smalls, Geralt wrapped both their blankets, warmed by the fire, around him tightly, before setting to work brewing a tea. 

“Here, drink this.” At the same time pressing a mug into his hands and holding it there until he took it and began sipping slow. 

“It’s good.” 

Geralt knew it wouldn’t be enough. 

Jaskier woke up wheezing and when Geralt pressed an ear against his back the crackling went almost to the bottom. He’d breathed the water. This outcome was inevitable. 

“Bad?” 

“Not good.” One tap. 

“Don’t lie.” Two.

“Wonderful.” He coughed and pressed a hand to his chest. “M’sorry, Geralt.” He pressed his palm against Jaskier’s hot forehead, cupped his neck and swept over the line of his jaw with his thumb. He could see it. In his pursed lips, his stiff posture, his red rimmed eyes. 

Jaskier thought he was going to leave him here. 

And because there was no way to tell him with words, Geralt pulled him close like he’d done only a few times before and held him tight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bweh sorry this took so long! I was caught up with another writing event :D

If anyone had asked, though there were none left who could, Geralt would be hard pressed to explain why he’d even tried it, except perhaps out of sheer desperation. On a bad night, a bad, bad night, when Jaskier’s fever climbed so high he was rendered senseless and the hardwon fight for air left him exhausted with lips tinged blue, Geralt sat behind him, propped him up near to sitting, holding him because touch was all they had left and even then he didn’t think the bard knew him. Maybe it was because he wanted to cover up the horrible wheeze echoing in his ears, the sound of drowning that made him start humming but he was terrible at it. Less his songbird’s compositions and more just a monotonous rumbling. Geralt’s face flushed hot; this was foolish, but just as he was about to stop, Jaskier’s battle with breathing seemed to ease, even if by a small measure. And when he pressed his face against the vulnerable skin of Geralt’s throat with a keening cry, he didn’t have it in his witcher’s heart to leave him. 

When he didn’t hum, he spoke. Mostly nonsense, sometimes stories Jaskier had begged to hear and he’d never divulged. Sometimes of his brothers. Of his home. All of it pouring out with the bard’s breath a series of overwarm whispers upon his neck. Of course now would be the time when the witcher found his words. When his companion couldn’t hear and couldn’t understand and couldn’t tease him like he knew he would with that smirk on his lips. 

Sometimes Jaskier had the strength to speak, gasping in the middle of words, in strange places in sentences because he didn't have the breath to carry them forward. He couldn’t and he wasted it on platitudes and comforting promises even though Geralt could smell the fear underneath the sickness and the sweat. 

His poor, beautiful bard.

He wasn’t getting better. 

No matter the medicine, no matter the healer, and it seemed more and more like Geralt would watch him die, alone in the silence of his dark world. 

He had to leave him. And he knew Jaskier wouldn’t understand. Would think the worst. Would think he’d been abandoned and there was no way to explain that it was to save him, that hurting him any more than he already had--

“D’Don’t leave. Please. Please, don’t leave me.” It nearly broke his resolve, to hear him beg and plead, too ill to do much more than shake his head fitfully on the pillow with tears rolling down cheeks painted with that hectic flush.

He tapped twice and twice again. Tugging his feverish body into his arms and wiping his face, petting back his sweat matted hair before kissing his forehead gently, once, twice. Please.

“I’ll be back soon.” But he couldn’t hear and he couldn’t know. “I promise, Jaskier.” 

He left enough coin and then some with the local healer to attend to him until his return. 

Two.

For yes. 

Jaskier couldn’t help but agree and he knew he’d never keep up this way. Even riding Roach was a difficult solution because they had to move slow. For him, for his constant need to rest. But he was preoccupied with the struggle it was to breathe, almost a conscious effort now, and he was afraid if he stopped thinking about it he would stop altogether. 

Geralt hadn’t left him yet. He needed to trust him, that he had a plan because Geralt had plans, he was good like that and he'd been trying to help in any way he could. 

It came to a head the second night when Geralt’s teas and tinctures and tisanes didn’t help like they had before and the cage of Jaskier's ribs near broke in half with the force of his coughing, trying to clear any space to breathe only to end up choking until the witcher beat his back hard enough to shift whatever was filling up his lungs. 

“G’Geralt…” collapsed over his arm and relying on him for support to keep him from sprawling in the dirt. Never has he wished harder to be able to hear, even if it was just some backhanded comment or a thinly veiled threat it would be a comfort. But his touch was soft and gentle as he helped him hold the waterskin and settled him by the fire.

Time lost even more meaning the deeper Jaskier slipped into fever and delirium. He imagined sounds, screaming, shouting, threatening voices, coughed so badly and so fiercely it left him nauseated and trembling. 

Wrapped up in their blankets and drifting in Geralt’s lap as Roach carried them onward. Face shielded in his chest. 

Warm.

Leather.

Rocking.

Safe. Geralt. 

Soft pillows and scratchy sheets. The smell of fire and stale drink. 

Blazing, burning heat and aching, bitter cold. 

And he was going to leave him here. He had to. Leave. He would leave him here. Alone. Deaf. Blind. Alone, alone, alone. It’s all he could think about, swirling in his mind, numbing his fingers, breathing harder only to cough and sputter and he was back in the river with water in his mouth, flooding in instead of air and he couldn’t _breathe_. 

Pressed against warmth, solid, safe. 

A rhythm. Soothing vibration against his back, against his face when he pressed it into a humming throat, counting the pulse running beneath it. 

Somewhere far below the fever, the confusion, the aching of his bones and body, he realized he wasn’t getting better. Geralt had to know that too.

He was going to leave him. 

No matter his pleading. His crying. 

He’d left him here to die alone in dark silence filled with a stranger’s hands.

As beautiful and powerful as ever, Yennefer approached him with the elegance and poise of a griffin on the prowl, taking up his ale and finishing it for him before taking the seat across the table. 

“Interrupted again, Geralt.” Her voice was almost a purr, effortlessly seductive. “You do have the loveliest timing.” 

“Yen.” Desperate, he’d already taken too much time away, frightened that when they returned Jaskier would be gone. “I, we. Need help.” 

“The bard, again? Really, Geralt.” A delicate brow lifted. “Still following you around? Licking your boots?” At that offense, the witcher growled. Low and threatening, strung out and tense with worry. “I see.” 

“Please.” She tapped perfectly filed fingernails on the rough wood of the table. 

“I’m listening.”

Travel by portal, while never having agreed with him, made the task of returning to Jaskier’s side simple once Yennefer had collected all that she needed to help him. Having not yet seen the curse, she wasn’t sure but she was confident she could heal his illness. 

Geralt sprinted to the inn after stabling Roach, instructing the hands to treat her well. The healer was in their room beside the bed but the look they gave Geralt held no hope and they handed back a fair amount of coin before taking their leave. But Jaskier.

So small and pale huddled in the corner of the bed, propped up on the wall with unseeing eyes red rimmed and bright with fever and sorrow. Trembling with the effort it took to breathe, he had his hands curled up close to his throat, folded there.

“Jaskier.” Of course he didn’t hear him. He couldn’t. And he couldn’t hear when Yennefer opened the door, or her sharp intake of breath. Slowly, carefully, trying not to startle him, Geralt moved to sit on the bed, reaching out to touch his shoulder and not expecting his reaction. 

“Don’t touch me!” Immediately he bent double in an awful, barking cough. The smell of blood bloomed in the air and flecked his lips and Geralt's mind went blank with fear. 

Jaskier didn’t much care for the stranger’s hands, deducing that they must belong to a healer and well. At least Geralt had done that much. But he was done with the poking and prodding and potions and teas. If he was to die here, he didn’t want to linger and after a time, the stranger understood, only offering water and tea. Certainly in their profession they knew when to let a patient go. 

But when he was touched again, already exhausted and ready and waiting, under the assumption that they still had an understanding, he shouted. Regret blossomed in his throat like iron and the pain in his chest was agonizing and he wanted to be anywhere other than this place filled with loneliness. 

He didn’t expect strong arms catching him up, or that familiar smell of adventure, or being pressed against a familiar hum. Smoothly, he was rocked, sweat slicked forehead adorned with a lingering press of familiarity. Geralt took up his fingers and squeezed twice and Jaskier found his breaking point. 

“Geralt.” Damp and messy with tears, chest heaving with pathetic cries, coughing. A thumb swept over his chin, likely removing the blood there, cupped his hot, hot face, and a strong femanine hand pressed down over his eyes to spell him swiftly to sleep. 

“Yen?” Completely slack in his grip, Jaskier was a brand cradled in his arms. She let him keep hold of him, checking what needed checking, face set in professional concern. Yen had saved him from a Djinn’s curse. Surely she could save him from this.

“Call for a bath. Clean linens as well.” She brushed back the bangs from his brow. “When I’m through he’ll appreciate a bath before he sleeps.” 

“And the curse?” 

“After he’s gotten some rest.” 

Yennefer’s foresight was a welcome thing and Jaskier unspooled in the bath with a sleepy sigh when Geralt lowered him into the warm water. What words he tried to speak were unintelligible, slurred and slow with exhaustion and the work of healing but he did smile lazily at Geralt’s fingers scrubbing soap through his hair, all but done in when he rinsed the suds away. Dried and dressed in soft clothes and tucked into cool, clean sheets, Jaskier was asleep before his head hit the pillow. Yennefer turned in her chair from the small table she was sitting at, scattered with notes, dried herbs, vials of oils and tinctures. 

“I’ve seen similar curses. It’ll be easy to lift this one.” The tension flooded out of Geralt at her confident declaration. “I need to prepare. Watch him, make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish.” Grateful for the shrouded offer of sleep swept in to replace the worry and he took no time in curling around his bard. 

They lifted the curse before Jaskier woke, dabbing Yennefer’s mixtures over his closed eyes, tilting his head this way and that to place precisely one drop in each ear, and completing the ritual with a short chant. There was no outward change, no burst of chaos, or fluttering winds, nothing to indicate that it worked except Yen’s bored expression as she stepped through her portal and left Geralt to his waiting. He was in the middle of maintaining his leathers when Jaskier moaned petualantely and turned away from him. 

“Geralt.” Stretched out and whinging like he wanted something. “Geralt, have mercy on the newly risen dead and draw the curtain.” There was a beat of silence before he’d thrown back the quilt and raced to the window. “Geralt!” 

“Jaskier?” He’d never seen his face light up as it was now, never, with a broad grin stretching almost from ear to ear. 

“Say it again.” 

“Jaskier?” 

“Again!” 

“Jaskier.” 

“There it is! That fond way you say my name when you’re about to sucker punch me in the gut.” He held a palm over his eyes. “I’ve. I’ve missed it.” While it seemed a ridiculous thing to miss, Geralt noticed tears slipping from behind his hand. “I’m. I’m sorry.” His chest heaved with a sob, a wave crashing into shore. “I. You know how I am. I’m sorry.” With care and kindness forcibly learned, the witcher guided him by the shoulders to sit on the mattress. 

“I’m sorry I had to leave you.” He began. Struggling with the shape of the words in his mouth. “I know it frightened you and I’m sorry I didn’t know how to make you understand.” Wide blue met amber for the first time in so, so long. 

“It’s alright. I.” Jaskier swallowed, held back the tides pushing and pulling. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise, I quite think.” Hooking his palm around Jaskier’s neck, Geralt pulled him into his chest. 

“Still.” His bard relaxed, spent from both ordeal and excitement. “I will always come back to you.” Tentative arms crept around his middle.

“Thank you, Geralt. For taking care of me.” Pulling away, he dried his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Hm.” 

“I know I didn’t exactly make it easy.” And no, Geralt had been the one to do that with his callousness. But he would continue to try. 

“You had your impressive moments.” And he had. Truthfully. 

“You think?” Geralt laid a hand on his shoulder and tapped twice.


End file.
